Incredible sorcery ≠ credible sources.

There are so many things that make the current American president unacceptable to me, but I don’t see them taken up by the resistance to his presidency (hash-tagged or otherwise). Such an issue is conventionally disregarded, not because it’s buried by distraction (which it is) but because it does not rise to the level to meet with the resister’s resistance unless it’s been hammered into their consciousness parallel to their first learning to form full sentences, like the issues of national allegiance, federal law enforcement, and espionage.I really couldn’t care less about the state of the FBI. The only good that’s come out of that organization is seen through fictional depictions and Eliot Ness’ Wikipedia page. Theirs is such a deep record of oppressive behavior, blowing the lid off of the occasional crime ring cannot make up for serial entrapment and murder. But I’m even more sceptical about the virtue of US intelligence or the sanctity of its sources. The mere fact that these statements are potential enough to reap my own harassment &/or surveillance might land me broader sympathy if not for the short circuit of intellect that takes place when such topics arise.

It’s the result of lazy thinking, which in fairness to the lazy thinkers is the result of social conditioning, which, given where this has led, functions now like an authentic incantation that manipulates the emotional mind of its subject-objects, who take their views for rational rather than the affect they really are.

As to the things distracted from, their extant state in the public record would be well enough to get the consideration they deserve were it not for counter-conditioning that keeps them clear of the emotional radar the subject-objects are disciplined to react to. For example, the president’s readying another hundred billion dollar death package to Saudi Arabia is standard operating procedure. Mundane even. Boring. Coupled with the inbred acceptance that secret state science saves humanity from the bad guys, questions of credibility don’t involve having to think.

I’m not trying to assert that there are not categorical differences of real and potential illegality at play in the current White House. On the contrary. I just don’t care about them. Nor are the constitutional matters coincidental. They underpin the problem I’m complaining about. The shadiness seen from political actors in my lifetime most often conveniently lands linguistically, and therefore legally, in the area of mistakes made: irresponsibility, negligence, maybe recklessness. Even then the language is spun by those absolved of crossing statutory boundaries. You know, politics.

But more frankly I don’t give a shit about Russian spies and oligarchs because the American ones and the ones of their official allies have acquitted themselves horrendously as it relates to the state of the world today, and their only answer is to do battle with the symptoms they’ve caused rather than address their own complicity. Not that I would expect them to.

The last thing I expect, however, is a people trained to think a certain way to recognize its least comforting manifestations. The current phenomenon suggests monumental peril at the hands of a historically duplicitous acting president. That this might be beside a certain point, that his presidency in and of itself might be extraneous to the world’s problems seems to occur to almost no one.

Of course, this is only my version of a plausible explanation for the popular state of mind. I am not convinced that the people who are actively railing against the shocking traitorous criminality of the American president even care about his implicit disloyalty. They’re just responding to stimuli. And it sure gives them good cause to care that much less about things he has in common with his predecessors, which is something his removal from office would do less than zilch to mitigate.


Matryoshki Eggs o’ Jesus

“Io, their soft inheritance is bound to unfounded prospect.”

Sheets of Prometheus Unraveled

To say it had been a hard fought primary campaign that effected a bitterness that led to the most vindictive convention that threatened to split the party apart once and for all — not just the way it’s said to be every primary season but most verily now — would be understating the treacherousness of the path traversed. Now, two and a half months later, upon the evening of the general election, the gathered felt certain of that path’s fortune. Not only had they stuck together to their principles and overthrown the corrupt party leadership, but their unlikely August triumph had manifestly inspired the entire nation, sailing their candidate into office with a majority that even the general opposition admitted amounted to a mandate.

With this seismic success at hand in mind, the frenzy smoldered from within the hall when the brand new president-elect took to the podium for a victory speech that given the circumstances probably would be the most genuinely worthy of any assembled hyperbolic cliché in the history books. Once the noise had ebbed such that it seemed the speech would begin, the collective set of tear streaming eyes summoned a symbolic vision from the depth of meaning behind their witness: no longer a political victory speech, this was a priestly observance invoked by the unprecedented level of emotional energy yet concentrated in any such proportional space.

The effect was both real and hallucinatory. The collective eyes of misty enthusiasm virtually lifted off the outer shell of the figure at the microphone, which optics realized at once a representation of the old: the tribulation of the previous eight years; the internecine torture of the last eleven months; the politics of the past — to reveal a raw looking duplicate within. It sported an identical color pattern and design, the same smile-risen rosy cheeks, but a befittingly smaller frame.

Immediately the thought sneaking into many minds on hand was a hint too obvious to ignore: the familiarity was an omen. Just as efficiently as that thought was inevitable, it was brushed aside for the sake of something between where sanity and faith never quite capably meet (that last bit ignored completely if at all manifest). A few of the dedicated who were worrying still entertained one last brief absurdity before they put it completely to rest: If this nested doll isn’t the real deal, once removed, the next one will be better. Some already explored that campaign in whispers and tweets — for progress’ sake, or, if forsaking progress, for continuity of purpose. For posterity.


“One can’t have been around to work for McCarthy yet not have heard this argument before. I do wonder myself just who all the non-corporate Thems would be and how they’d fare, assuming they weren’t really corporate Thems at heart. America needs a complete conversation change. Each Warren and all the Sanders are as a gate before the gates of Nan P. Losy and Dee Finestone whose congenital function is to smith the chains of stricture upon that which national dialog is held. Behind every Paris there’s an Elision who serves well as a placeholder for misplaced dreams.”

—Cody Cray Z.

The subtext of the finding of Lone Hapless Osmosis guilty of the murder of the sitting king was that the dramaturgic control of its investigation was covering up the assassin’s facilitation by a menacing cabal of meddling Coloreds, the revelation of whose involvement would have increased tensions between the cool battle nations that surely’d’ve led to atomic annihilation. The general pretense of Lemley Briscoe Jackson’s purported unease with the Warring Committee Release was that it was missing something, which was as camouflage draped over the performative cover-up. What’s been alleged through continual leakage and over the years has accumulated into waves of publication to satisfy the desire that a conspiracy finally be admitted to. The only thing revealed however is a cover story, which is as aged as the conspiracy itself. That the story today appeases the reemerged zeitgeist may or may not be relevant.

Like the metaphor of peeling back the layers of the onion, the uncovering of each doll carries the liminal expectation of revelation. If one were to recognize reality through this model and follow its logic to conclusion, they’d find at the core of the innermost doll beats the heart of a MacGuffin, for dolls and puppets don’t have hearts. The agency behind this model, however, is not the construct of super-surreptitious long-term planning, but the representation of wholly natural processes of organisms and their composite structures.

For example, the simplest solution toward the continuity of a state’s best supplied beneficiaries during times of enlightened consent — when extortion and misappropriation of the citizens’ lifeblood is met with new forms of unpredictable resistance — is to stratify the subterfuge, to bring the mass of consumer-laborers into union with the validity of the implied face behind the mask in such cases where the mask is not to their liking.

Aside from its obscuring the obvious, an additional utility of this multilayered costume ball is that critics come off as party poopers, and any such malcontent who acknowledges its depth of display is certifiable enough to be removed from the premises.


Organic Gates of Matryoshki

just look at the reds
our story paints a picture
cloak over veneer

uppermost frameup
of vast southern exposure
dulles does dallas

their cover stories

disclosure gag reflexes
told in drips and drabs

always smaller shells

placeholders for misplaced dreams
limited hangouts

the cap in the hat

for each intrigue a russkie
warring commission

pointing fingerprints
modern stench revolution
preemptive pretense


The Fist of May

As it relates to the fruits of labor beyond just harvest, this first day of May means a number of things, down to nothing, depending upon where one comes- or is coming from. Being an American by arbitrary birthright I can observe the spectrum from ignorance to disregard. The European perspective — which, perspectives being as they are, one should in no way claim capacity of even the most far-flung interpretive representation — is hardly of one voice as to the significance of International Workers’ Day, or how it should or shouldn’t be observed.There are non-Europeans who think they know how things are different in Euroland and are comfortable acting as authority on the matter. There are non-Euros who know better, but act as authority all the same. There are those who admit ignorance, but will say they get the general idea and don’t have too big a problem arguing a viewpoint on it. There are those who are less comfortable in this final regard, but not to the extent that you won’t hear plenty of peep out of them. Wherever the end of this line is, it doesn’t have anyone on it who’ll admit they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about, counting myself. If there’s a silent majority, they ain’t sayin’ shit.

About the First of May: it’s easy to bear distant witness to people throwing bottles at cops or breaking windows and setting things on fire and saying that this isn’t what the celebration is supposed to be about. If there’s any safer an utterance on the subject than, “It’s supposed to be a peaceful demonstration of (compete cliché here),” I can’t recall hearing it. On the flipside, there’s no rounder a rebuke guaranteed than if you were to state certainly that breaking shit is in fact what it is all about.

Take the events 131 years ago surrounding Haymarket Square in Chicago as substantiated origin of today’s holiday in Europe and you have a parallel of competing stories as to what inspired what took place then — including who was involved and why, and what ultimately resulted and who all were instrumental in that — that lend remarkable credence to the appropriateness of this recurring annual symbolism of “we just wanna barbecue” vs. “get in line or stay away” vs. “peacefully demonstrate” vs. “stand up and be counted” vs. “make a ruckus” vs. “break the fucking system”.

If, on the other hand, the aforesaid safest interpretation of the meaning of these gatherings is the one viable demonstration, it seems to me like an awful lot of marching under the aegis of advertising democracies whose backdrop is an infrastructure of hierarchy that democracy is helpless to change more than indirectly rearrange.

Enter the Strike: standing up to sit down, walking in to walk out, shouting out to shut down, fully embracing boycott. These are all actions that, even if you see them as passive resistance, will most certainly beget an increase in violence one must be prepared to withstand in order to remain resolute enough to make a difference. Unfortunately, this threat of reactionary beatdown does not, in my opinion, factor into why the workers of the world will never unite to overcome those who own the right to hire and fire them under conditions that mutate with the times. Moreover, the lack of solidarity is not only due to inadequate organisation, but down to lack of unity of enlightened desperation: It requires the participation of a broad range of people of centuries-long indoctrination who are everything from too in need of their income to feed their own, to comfy enough in their consumer habits and don’t want to rock the yacht.

The most quickly dismissed are the ones who stand up. Given that the elections that dominate much of the world’s news these days are in a myriad of ways rigged at their outset, voting is anything but standing up. It serves first as an outlet of plausible freedom. If we really wanted the world free of its oppressors, the world’s workers’d be on strike and her unemployed boycotting everything else.

And the action alone is not enough. If it’s true that the price of liberty is eternal vigilance, the strike would have to be permanent.

solidarity forever


Der Parkbank Pinkler Kapitel XVI: erhellend und matt


Dies ist die Geschichte von Kraft und Leere. Nicht allzu kompliziert zu erfassen, wenn man deren Wesentliche erleben hat oder wie hier, ist man bislang mit der Zusammenwirkung von Kräften und Leere ausgekommen. Jedoch verschachtelt ist der Geschichte wie die Kreisen der Hölle, wenn erzählt werden muss, über kräftige Leere gegenüber leeren Kräften und dann noch über leere Kräfte gegenüber kräftigen Leere. Gar nicht zu reden vom Verklausulieren nötig seitens des Erzählers.

Selbstredend kommen Leser zu dem Schluss, dass eine Festlegung von Begriffen Vorrang hat. Was ist Kraft? Was ist Leere? So einfach ist es leider auch nicht. Gerade deshalb diese Geschichte. Ich sag dies nicht, um die Geschichte im Voraus rätselhaft aufzuweisen, auch nun nur nicht, deren besonderen Umriss vorzulegen, aber doch: Die Geschichte bestimmt die Begriffe, nicht andersrum. Wiederum wird die Bedingungen der Geschichte von den daraus gewonnenen Begrifflichkeiten abhängen.

Vorwiegend aber und ganz einfach, eine Geschichte dürfte mehr sein als ein Bild wert. Eventuell auch diese. Leider bin ich weder Maler noch Schriftsteller. Als nichtmaler Künstler dennoch, zu erzählen habe ich eine Geschichte. Sie hängt von Worten ab und ich von Wörtern und, wie gesagt, die Bedeutung dieser Geschichte besteht aus Worte-abhängigen Wörtern. Kurzum: Metapher und Analogie kraft der Parabel. Diese handelt sich vom Folgenden:

Sprich: es war nicht nur einmal. Es war immer wieder. Wie der Messiahs von Fleischhändel aus dem Fall von Thomas von Aquin: Unsterblich. Lobt Jah! Und es wird noch immer sein. Oje! Wir werden bitter Vorräte nötig haben. Jedenfalls mehr als was Otto von Sprichwort parat hat.

»Bei Otto von Sprichwort ist nichts unbekannt.«  »Ich brauch aber eine Lebenszielversicherung, nicht Lebenszielberatung.«  »Zum Glück kenne ich auch noch einen Lebenszielversicherungs-verkäufer.«

Überleg. »Ist er teuer?«  »Billig ist er gerade nicht. Günstig aber, wenn einer bedenkt, was man dafür bekommt.«  »Die Versicherung ist ohnehin lebensrechtlich vorgeschrieben.«  »Eben.«

Und so macht sich unser Lebenszielversicherungsarme auf den Weg. Wie der Zufall es wollte, ist sein Ziel nur zwei Busse entfernt, der Eins-elf und der Einundzwanzig, darunter achtzehn Haltestellen. Zweimal Dreiviertelstunde. Am Büro angekommen, holt er den Aufzug in die neunten Etage und meldet sich bei der Dame am Empfang: »Sind Sie Laufkunde?«  »Bin mit dem Bus gekommen.«  Zugewiesen nimmt er im Wartezimmer Platz. Darunter ein Heft, eine Illustierte, anderthalb Artikel, viele Bilder. Dreiviertelstunde.

»So. Sie möchten bei uns eine Versicherung abschließen.«  »Na ja. Ich bin verpflichtet.«

»So so! Eine Lebenszielversicherung! Dabei kann ich Ihnen recht behilflich sein.« Er steht auf und geht zur Tür. »Frau Fang, bitte übergeben Sie mir den Lebenszielberatungsschein von Herrn…«

»Er hat keins. Der Herr gehört auch der Laufkundschaft.«  Von über die Kundenschulter: »Ich bin mit dem Bus gekommen.«

»So so.« Die Tür wird geschlossen und Platz wieder genommen hinterm Schreibtisch. »Sie hätten doch lieber erst anrufen sollen, der Herr. Allerdings ist der Fernsprecher noch nicht erfunden, und wir hätten den Anruf sowieso nichts entgegengenommen… trotzdem. Egal. Sie müssen uns ein Beratungsschein vorlegen. Ohne Lebenszielberatung wird keiner versichert. Zumindest nicht in diesem Staat. Wo kommen denn her, Herr…«

Das war einmal. Vielmals läuft es ähnlich so, auch nach Erfindung des Telefons. Meistens versucht der Lebensziel-versicherungsarme dem Kaufmann zu erklären, wie es schon beim Berater wirklich umgekehrt abgelaufen war, wo es heißt, der Beratene muss dem Zielberater den Versicherungsvertrag vorlegen können. Sonst wird keine Lebenszielberatung geboten beziehungsweise in Anspruch genommen. Zumal in jenem Staat.

Noch nicht ein einziges Mal weißt der Lebensziel-versicherungsarme beziehungsweise der Lebenszielberatungs-scheinlose, wo er her kommt. Er weißt lediglich, er kommt mit dem Bus.



Flatness is a recurring theme (an exerpt).

[from German orig: dly]

cont’d from page 44

ingredients for flying cheese sandwich anti-gravity machines head to Aldi. You’ll need a bag of sliced white bread called Toastbrot. The cheese should be a cheese food colloidally constructed of dehydrated dairy power and oil and packaged in individually wrapped slices. In Aldi this is usually found by the beef jerky and dog food, not in need of refrigeration. One package fuels roughly one fleet.

Work on a flat surface large enough for the sandwich to move a half meter [2 ft] in any direction. No smaller than 5m² [16 sq ft] is recommended. Remove two adjacent slices of bread (no heels) from the bag. It is important that these are adjacent, as their outline when placed upon each other should be perfectly flush. Place the first slice of bread as close to the center of the surface as possible. Remove one slice of cheese from its wrapper and center it atop of the first slice bread so that the cheese in no way extends beyond the crust edge. Place the second slice of bread neatly flush on top of the first, creating the desired “sandwich effect”.

Now it’s time to insert the previously modified soldering iron described in Chapter 2. Prior to the heating stage, the bread should have been pre-toasted, but only slightly; it’s essential that the initial heat source be applied primarily to the cheese, hence the modification of the iron rod, flattened and generating heat from only one side of the tip. Insert the iron stem and apply heat to the underside of the cheese approximately halfway to its center. Any subsequent temperature rise in the bread should be the result of direct contact with the melted cheese food product.

Important: Compromising the integrity of the bread can cause crumble in flight, leading to leakage and potential cheese burns on the ground or, worse, a tear in the universe.

At some point when the cheese has reached between 450° to 500°C the bread slices will begin their counter-revolutionary spin. Do not remove the iron until the sandwich has achieved between 8-12 cm [3-5 in] lift for circa 3 seconds. Slide the stem in one swift horizontal motion so as not to fracture the bread.

Cheese temperature is maintained by bread slice friction and movement propelled by inexhaustible cheese food heat energy. You will now have an anti-gravity device of perpetual motion. Salt to taste.


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